


Necklace

by ncfan



Series: Doriath [9]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beginnings of Obsession, Canonical Character Death, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Parent Death, Silmaril - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dior receives the Silmaril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necklace

They are dead.

They are dead. That can be the only explanation for what he has been sent, for Dior knows that neither of his parents would have parted with this, were they living. Beren would not have. Lúthien certainly would not have, for she wore it every day of her life that it was hers, and it seemed to be a part of her, a living part of her body.

Perhaps a living parasite, then, sucking out every ounce of vitality she had, so that Lúthien died too soon, and Beren joined her in death.

It's hard for Dior to say. Yes, his father was an Adan, but Dior was raised among the Laegrim, the Edhil. He was raised amongst the deathless, and has no contact with his father's people. He knows that his parents having died means a separation between him and them, possibly unto the breaking of the world. He knows that they will never again walk this earth, for Lúthien made a bargain in order to touch the living world again, with her beloved at her side.

This is too soon.

Dior sits alone, in silence, sitting on a throne that suddenly seems too large for him to fill, too cold and hard to be comfortable, staring at the coffer set before him. He knows what's inside. There's only one thing that the Laegrim would have sent to him, after Lúthien and Beren's deaths. He leans forwards, and undoes the latch on the coffer.

The cavernous throne room is flooded with dancing light.

Yes, it is it.

Here, in Dior's hands, is Lúthien Tinúviel's bride price. Here is Finrod Felagund's necklace, a carcanet studded with wondrous gems, and set into it is the most wondrous jewel of all, the Silmaril that Beren cut from Morgoth's crown. Here is what Edhil have waged war over, what a foul Kinslaying has been perpetrated over, what his grandfather, Elu Thingol, was murdered over. And truly, Dior can see why, has always been able to see why. This Silmaril of Fëanor's, of Lúthien's, of _his_ , is not merely possessed of beauty. It is not merely possessed of light. It generates its own light, draws all eyes to it, gives warmth and exerts an almost supernatural pull, drawing all who look on it further in, closer towards it.

It heals hurts. This much, Dior knows. As a child, when he visited Doriath and longed for home, longed for his parents and his friends in Ossiriand, all he needed to do was look into the Silmaril that his grandfather kept on his person to forget all of his pain, all of his fear, and all of his longing for home. He was one of the few people his grandfather would let look upon the Silmaril, and when Dior looked on it, he did not want to be anywhere else. Melian often told Dior that he should not stare upon the Silmaril for too long (and would look at her husband with a perturbed expression when he stared into its depths himself), but Dior could see no harm in it, and could not heed his grandmother's words.

" _You might blind yourself, child."_

" _There's nothing wrong with my eyes, Grandmother."_

" _I wasn't speaking of your eyes, Dior."_

The Silmaril healed his hurts when he was a boy. Will it do the same now? Dior lifts the Silmaril, set as it is in its necklace, up out of the coffer, and holds it in his hands, staring down on it. Twinkling lights flash from the faceted depths of the jewel, like stars swimming in a sea of light. The lights coalesce into hazy, shimmering forms. He sees Beren, sitting contentedly beneath the trees. He sees Lúthien dancing in a sunlit glade. Tiny Eluréd and Elurín will sometimes join her. And he sees himself, as a child, dancing with her, free of all sorrow and pain. Dior shuts his eyes. He feels the warmth of the Silmaril on his skin. It's like being licked by flame, except there is no pain, and the only result is to warm every inch of him, banishing utterly the chill of autumn. The pain of losing them trickles away, the light of the Silmaril warms him, and he forgets his grief.

He hears the door creak open, and Dior's eyes snap open.

"…Elwing?"

Hovering in the doorway is tiny Elwing, staring at him curiously. Dior smiles at his daughter and beckons her forward. "Come here, Elwing."

She slips in through the crack between the double doors and crosses the room, her shadow flickering and wavering like a dancer in the ethereal light of the Silmaril. Elwing clambers up onto her father's lap. Her glossy black curls fall over her face as she smiles sweetly up at him. "Gotten away from Mama, have you?"

Elwing nods. "Yes, Papa," she says. Despite her scant number of years, she manages to speak with more solemnity than her older brothers, and even when confessing to some small misdeed, she speaks with enough solemnity that it seems like no misdeed at all.

If he is honest with himself, Elwing is Dior's favorite child. He does not love his twin boys any less for this fact; Eluréd and Elurín are still as dear to him as any children have ever been to their father. But there is in Elwing a likeness to himself, a likeness to Lúthien, in glossy black hair and shining fair skin. Elwing recalls back to Lúthien, at least in her father's eyes, and that is enough of a miracle to make her dear to him.

"What's that?" Elwing asks, staring at the jewel Dior holds in his hands.

It occurs to Dior that Elwing has never seen the Silmaril. She was born here, in Doriath, after the Silmaril was delivered to Lúthien. On account of that, Elwing has also never seen her grandmother, which is a shame, frankly.

"Elwing, have I ever told you about the Silmaril?" Dior asks softly, holding the necklace up so Elwing can get a better look at it.

She gazes into the depths of the radiant gem, fascinated, pressing her small hand against the surface of the Silmaril and staring in wonder when her skin seems to come alight. "No, Papa," she tells him absently.

"Well, once, many years ago, my parents—your grandparents—went into the stronghold of the Enemy, and cut this gem from his crown. My grandfather had demanded it as my mother's bride price, and would accept nothing else. The Silmaril is one of three, created in the Undying Lands. It holds the light of the Two Trees, a truly wondrous light. It is said that the Silmaril will heal all hurts, given enough time."

"Grandmother wore it?" Elwing continues to stare, utterly absorbed, into the depths of the Silmaril. What she sees in the sea of twinkling stars, no one can tell, let alone Dior.

He nods, smiling in reminiscence. Dior only saw his mother wearing the Silmaril a handful of times, but her radiance when the jewel sat against her skin was such that surely even the Queen of the Stars herself would have paled in comparison, tarnished and tawdry. "Yes, my mother did wear it. It came to her after her father died."

"And now Grandmother is dead?" Elwing asks, her mind making the necessary leaps—Lúthien came into possession of the Silmaril after Thingol was killed, so how would Dior come into possession of what was hers, except by her death? She sees detached at the idea of kin of hers being dead, though Dior is in no state to think it odd. He feels detached from her death now himself; he remembers that he considered it important, but no longer quite remembers why.

"Yes, she is."

"But I can see her here." Elwing points to the Silmaril, staring seriously up at her father. Her silver eyes glow with reflected light.

Dior strokes her hair. "Yes, little one. So can I."

Before the Iathrim court, Dior stands and latches the necklace that bears the Silmaril around his throat. His skin glows with the light of the Silmaril; the light of the Two Trees is in his eyes. To all he appears the fairest of any living being in the world, fairest of the race of the Edain, the Eldar, and the Maiar. Dior feels the comforting weight of the Silmaril around his neck, feels the comforting warmth of it upon his skin. He is loath to part with it.

At night, Dior dreams of a radiant woman dancing in a sunlit glade. He remembers that she was important, but he can not quite remember who she is. He dreams of his body filled with light, his bones gleaming with the light of the Silmaril. He dreams of being consumed, and feels no fear.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: It is said that Elwing was born in Ossiriand, but I'm tweaking that; the canon timeline just doesn't make sense for me in this case.
> 
> Adan—Man, of one of the three houses of the Edain (plural: Edain) (Sindarin)  
> Laegrim—the Green-Elves of Ossiriand (singular: Laegel) (plural: Laegil; Laegrim is class-plural term)  
> Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)


End file.
